It has been six years since Greek ships docked. The boats begin their slow decay, now, the masts infested with rot and the damp eating at black sails, unattended. They sink slowly below the waves, a hair’s breadth further down into the deep with every day, while the soldiers leave them as offerings for Poseidon – for what are they now worth?
They stand along the coast as a reminder, and as a test. Any mab could steal a ship and sail away home, and indeed some have tried. Brutal punishments from their lords met them, followed by powerful speeches about claiming Ilium at last, and Hope was renewed again in the air for some time – and then the grinding siege only continued, again and again, until every soldier’s eyes was filled with ash.
They have been picked off, one by one. Great warriors lost, armies depleted in number, but the Trojans have felt similar such sufferings. The war is misery – and the war is glory.
Hero meets hero and iron meets iron. That is the way of the days here, long in the heat of Ilium.